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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468245">to receive your blessing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcafira/pseuds/Arcafira'>Arcafira</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Body Worship, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley has feelings about the Fall, Crowley's Throne, Dom/sub, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Painplay, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), an erotic fic with no sex, erotic blessings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:46:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,490</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26468245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcafira/pseuds/Arcafira</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Crowley missed having someone to worship, someone holy and radiant to raise his eyes to. ‘Missed’ is such a small word to contain what he lost in the Fall thousands of years ago. He wants someone—he wants <i>Aziraphale</i>—to look upon him and tell him he’s perfect and whole and good."</p><p>--</p><p>Crowley has harbored a millennia-old desire to worship Aziraphale and be blessed by him. A moment of domesticity reveals it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>148</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Top Aziraphale Recs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to receive your blessing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nothing is novel about this moment: Aziraphale sits in his customary chair in the bookshop, eyes down on some old book, cocoa steaming on the nearby desk, the lamp lighting his curls into a halo. Still, Crowley finds himself frozen as he comes upon the scene. Whatever he was going to say is lost. He’s content to observe this daily miracle.</p><p>Eventually, Aziraphale looks up from his book and startles when he goes for his cocoa. “How long have you been standing there, dear boy?” he asks, hand over his chest.</p><p>“I could worship you, y’know,” Crowley says before he can consider the appropriateness of the thought, before he can thoroughly interrogate the sudden bloom of desire.</p><p>Aziraphale stares, and Crowley curses his serpent tongue, ducks his head, runs his hand through his hair. When he gets over himself and manages to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, the angel has that bastard gleam in his eye as he sips his cocoa. “How blasphemous,” he says, quirking an eyebrow.</p><p>“I <em>am </em>a demon,” Crowley tries to joke, but he’s breathless.</p><p>Aziraphale returns the mug to his desk. They’re silent, anticipation winding tense between them.</p><p>“Do you care to clarify, dear?” Aziraphale asks. The thing in the room tightens.</p><p>“In the most literal way. I could worship you. If you’d let me.”</p><p>Then Aziraphale shuts his book, and Crowley wishes he hadn’t. This is serious now. He can’t go back. He keeps talking.</p><p>“If I worshipped you, if I kneeled before you, would you bless me?” Crowley asks in a rush. If he thinks too much about the words he will cage them away again. He’s on his knees. He braces his hands against the floor and the pristine vintage rug, grounds himself in its softness. “Sometimes I look at you and feel like I need to lose everything to you.”</p><p>Aziraphale sets the book aside purposefully and goes to Crowley, stands over him, combs his fingers through the demon’s hair as he chooses what to respond to. “A blessing would hurt you,” he says simply.</p><p>“I know,” says Crowley. He can see the question in the angel’s eyes and adds. “The pain would feel . . . right—if it were you.”</p><p>A thoughtful hum. The gleam is back in his eye. “Would you tell me more?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Raise your head and come to me,” commands the angel. Crowley’s knees ache. How long has he been bare and kneeling on the unforgiving cold floor? How many praises have passed his lips? He’s delirious with them. The perfect worshipper, he does not need to pause to sleep or eat. There’s only him and the object of his adoration. This is what he has wanted—to bask undisturbed in Aziraphale’s radiance, to meditate on his golden warmth for so long that Crowley begins to taste it at the back of his throat.</p><p>He does as the angel commands but keeps his eyes respectfully lowered. Excitement thrills down his spine at the sight of Aziraphale seated upon the gold and velvet throne. Crowley’s throne. It’s not a seat Aziraphale would have ever chosen on his own—seemed to do his best not even to glance at it or come within a certain distance of it during the times when he’s visited—but seeing him here now, holding Crowley in his blue gaze, makes him hungry. Aziraphale binds Crowley’s wrists with a slip of red satin ribbon so that his hands are permanently clasped in supplication.</p><p>“You still want this,” Aziraphale says or asks. Crowley can’t tell; his voice is so quiet.</p><p>“If you find me worthy, I would receive your blessing,” Crowley answers. His mouth is dry. He’s missed having someone to worship, someone holy and radiant to raise his eyes to. ‘Missed’ is such a small word to contain what he lost in the Fall thousands of years ago. He wants someone—he wants <em>Aziraphale</em>—to look upon him and tell him he’s perfect and whole and good. Aziraphale presses a blessing over Crowley’s heart, and the demon grits his teeth through the bright pain, shudders a gasping exhale. Even after the angel has drawn his hand away from Crowley’s flesh, he can still feel it there. A phantom touch. As the sharpest of the pain subsides, he has the focus to attempt to name the sensation, this feeling of being unmade by love. For the first time since the scene began, a wrinkle of concern creases Aziraphale’s brow, breaking the impassive façade.</p><p>“Your safe word, my dear,” comes the soft reminder. “If at any point it’s too much—“</p><p>“It’s perfect,” Crowley pants. Aziraphale offers a caress to Crowley’s jaw, and he shivers at how those same hands can offer divine agony and comfort mere seconds apart. He leans into the touch, and when Aziraphale’s hand withdraws, he drops his forehead upon the angel’s knee. Immediately, those same tender hands are fisted in his hair, pulling him away.</p><p>“You’re not to touch me until you have permission,” says Aziraphale, unable to stop the way his mouth quirks in a fleeting smile. “Remember?” he adds, softening the command even as his hand tightens in Crowley’s hair. Next to the spiritual pain of the blessing, this concentrated bodily pain is grounding.</p><p>“Yes, angel,” Crowley manages, dizzy at the juxtaposition.</p><p>He has never needed to breathe, but he needs air in this moment. Needs air because despite all they’ve endured together, he never thought he’d find himself here like this—an offering of flesh and devotion at the feet of the divine expression he’s orbited for millennia. He has wanted this and been afraid to ask, afraid of Aziraphale’s reaction to his fantasy.</p><p>Aziraphale releases his hold on Crowley’s hair, sits back in the throne, considers how Crowley kneels before him, between the spread of his thighs. The demon’s hair is mussed now, strands of copper in his face. His skin is flushed hot. But his breathing has found a less frantic rhythm.</p><p>“Shall we continue?” asks Aziraphale.</p><p>Crowley can only nod. His heart thunders in his chest anew.</p><p>“You may kiss me,” Aziraphale says, offering his right hand. Crowley presses his face into the warmth of the angel’s palm, kisses each knuckle, inhales the faded scent of tea and paper on his skin. He glances up for permission before tasting the gold signet ring with his forked tongue and taking Aziraphale’s little finger into his mouth, tonguing bone, flesh, fingernail—cherishing this new way of knowing the angel’s corporation. Aziraphale bites back a moan, and Crowley can’t help it; he smiles a sharp-toothed smile of satisfaction, running his canines delicately along the length of Aziraphale’s finger. The angel’s eyes widen with his own desire, and a slight shiver disturbs the composed façade he’d cultivated to fulfill Crowley’s fantasy. There’s something lovely to Crowley in the knowledge that even when surrendering his power, he can still affect Aziraphale this way. These thousands of years have acquainted him with this dance—the angel’s stuffy reserve something he can occasionally break through with a word or the barest touch. It’s heady seeing it again now that Aziraphale has no longer had to hide from him.</p><p>“Fiend,” Aziraphale chastises, the word somehow impossibly tender in his mouth. He takes a steadying breath, composes himself back into the being of Crowley’s imagination. “I’ll have to punish you for that.” The turn of the words, the hardness of them, sends a thrum through Crowley’s core.</p><p>Aziraphale rests a cool palm against Crowley’s forehead, and there’s a delay this time between the touch and the imparted blessing. Crowley tenses, waits.</p><p>“Look at me,” says Aziraphale, and his voice is tender again. “You’re so beautiful.”</p><p>When Crowley meets his gaze, those blue eyes are so incredibly soft. His other hand cradles the back of Crowley’s head, blunt fingernails gliding against his scalp until his hand twists in Crowley’s hair again, a sharp pull holding him still. He utters something in the angelic tongue that Crowley doesn’t have time to attempt to parse because he thinks he might be undone. The blessing sears through him, finding every broken edge with the intent of making it whole again. He doesn’t know if he screams this time. He doesn’t know if Aziraphale still holds him. All he knows is light and love and pain. This love feels like it could break him but he knows it won’t, knows that Aziraphale has looked into him and found the limits of his body and soul and would not push past that.</p><p>His cheeks are wet when he comes back to his body, the energy of the blessing still singing through him like electricity. He feels weightless, ascended, as if Aziraphale has borne his weight and flown him above the clouds. The sun’s warmth is here. He aches to say something of love and thanks, but the right words will come later. The ribbon is untied, the tears kissed away. Aziraphale kneels to embrace him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you can find me on <a href="https://arcafira.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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